Make ‘Em Laugh

A look back at a short-lived stand up comedy career

By Dale Dudley

Published: April 2, 2013

Illustration by Paulo Buchinho

In the picture, I’m skinny as a rail, and my arms are outstretched in victory. The vanquished are standing behind me as I soak in the applause from the sold-out club. The setting was Abbey Road nightclub, 1985, and I had just been announced as “The Funniest Person in Lubbock.” In my hand is an empty envelope—the bar owner later gave me the $1,000 prize that paid my overdue rent and kept me from having to move back in with family. It also allowed me to eventually get to Austin.

I started doing stand-up in 1982. I had an improvised skit that I had performed in junior college. I won first place at a state drama competition, and when I performed it there, I was met with my first and only standing ovation. It seemed logical to me that it would work at one of these new comedy clubs that were popping up across the country. I drove to the Comedy Corner in Dallas and signed up for an open-mic night. I heard my name called halfway through the show and bounded up on the stage, confident that my modern-day version of Three Billy Goats Gruff was going to kill. There were a couple of nervous laughs, and then I heard someone say, “What is this?” I got a few more chuckles, but they were the ones that are caused by a room being too quiet. I was just happy I had survived.

A few months later, I moved to Lubbock to escape the wrath of my drunken old man. Growing up with drunks made me crave attention, and I was determined to multiply those courtesy laughs I got in Dallas. Lubbock is no hotbed of entertainment, but in the early ’80s the comedy club phase was on fire. At one point, it had three full-time comedy clubs, and many of the bars booked touring comics on the weekends. There was literally a shortage of comedy, so headliners were paid incredible amounts, and scrubs like me could make a little money filling the holes.

I became a regular at The Laughing Stock, which was within walking distance of the Texas Tech campus. The audience was a stream of frat boys and sorority girls who would arrive at the club drunk and ready to heckle. The owner liked me, and I be- came the emcee. The job was telling a few jokes, reminding the crowd to tip the waitress and introducing the middle act.

I don’t ever remember having a plan or writing a joke. I would just have an idea of what I wanted to do, down a couple of drinks and hit the stage. Fight or flight adrenaline would kick in, and it would give me a frenetic energy that made it impossible for the drunken meatheads to know when to interrupt. I would make fun of myself and bend my body like a contortionist into something I called “the spider,” balancing on my hands with my legs over the back of my arms. Then I would move into mini- skits, pulling out props from a case I had on stage. My comic friends say that today I would be known as a hack.

I only remember bombing once. I got booked to play a club in Odessa. My sister and her husband lived there, so I invited them. The venue turned out to be a dive bar on the highway toward the oil fields. There was a shop light hanging on an improvised stage, and the microphone was cheap plastic connected to a weak home stereo system. My sister and the bartender were the only women in the crowd; all the men were covered in dirt, oil and grime. Every part of the act failed to get even a smile, but I wasn’t worried. I knew my big Boy George finale would win them over. The music kicked in as I threw baby powder in my face to simulate the makeup of the Culture Club singer. I turned around and began lip-syncing, only to hear one of the oil field workers shout something about my manhood. I ran to the bathroom with tears clotting the baby powder as they ran down my face.

If I’m ever asked—and I never am—why I quit doing stand-up, I tell this story: The Laughing Stock had booked some guys from Houston who billed themselves as the Texas Outlaw Comics, and they asked me to emcee for the week. I would get up and do my eight or 10 minutes and then watch these guys from the back of the room. T. Sean Shannon, who would go on to write for Saturday Night Live, was the middle act, and Bill Hicks was the headliner. Every night of that week, I watched Bill—and I was mesmerized. We were the same age, and his subject matter seemed to come from a place that I knew well: growing up amongst religious hypocrisy and silly social cliques. But Bill (with whom I be- came friends) would twist it until he had the crowd doubled over in laughter. He got standing ovations every single show that week, and he used different material for each show. It didn’t occur to me until later on, but today, almost 20 years after Bill died from cancer, I know I was watching the John Lennon of comedy. I think somewhere in me I realized I was a junior high garage band with way too far to go, and so I just stopped showing up.

Somewhere in a parallel universe, I’m still doing stand- up. I can feel it when I’ve had a few drinks at Cap City, and I’m watching the promise of Ramin Nazer or Chris Cubas. I wonder if I could have written brainy material like my radio sidekick Matt Bearden when I see him at PUNCH! I’ll catch my old friend and fellow Texan Ron White on TV and think, I could tell a story like that. Then I’ll listen to a clip of “Rant in E-Minor” from Bill, and I realize that I’m just lucky to have known these guys. Oh, and I’ll always remember that for one fun night a long time ago, I was the funniest guy in the room.